For once, Sam took no joy in being proven right.

When she reached the stables, Sam hurried through the exhibition hall—filled with replicas of old carriages, coachmen’s uniforms, even a wooden pony that children could practice saddling—and into the riding ring, which was surrounded by a row of spectators’ seats. It smelled of leather and dust and, underneath, the animal musk of horses.

The first thing Sam noticed was the golden state coach, spread out in the middle of the arena in all its blinding glory.

Eight bay geldings stood harnessed before it, enormous white plumes fixed to their foreheads. A postilion in crimson livery was talking to Sam’s mother, who was reviewing something, probably the parade route, with Robert Standish. Teddy had wandered behind them to approach one of the horses in the carriage lineup.

He held out a sugar cube, and the horse eagerly licked it from the palm of his hand. It nipped at his clothes in search of more treats, but Teddy just laughed. Sam watched as he greeted each of the horses with low, soothing noises, stroking their necks so that their ears pricked forward in lazy delight.

This, she realized, was what Teddy did best. There was a steadiness to him, an intent fixity of purpose that calmed everyone around him. He was the sort of person you wanted to lean on in a crisis. He’ll be a good king consort, she decided.

He looked up at her and smiled, the familiar, dimpled smile that used to make her go weak at the knees. Except now when she saw it, Sam felt nothing at all.

She jumped down into the ring, and a puff of light brown dust rose from beneath her sneakers.

At Sam’s arrival, Robert looked at his watch and heaved a sigh. “Apparently Her Majesty is running late. So, Your Royal Highness, you’ll have to fill in for your sister. Why don’t you and His Lordship get into the state coach.”

Teddy started forward, but Sam stayed where she was. “Get into the coach? Why?”

“The coachmen will take you around the grounds a few times, to simulate Beatrice and Teddy’s procession through the capital. We just want to make sure everything is in good working order,” he explained. “This is the first time the carriage has been used in twelve years.”

It hadn’t been used, Sam realized, since her father’s coronation.

She didn’t bother pointing out that this carriage was so heavy, the weight of one young woman wouldn’t make a difference. Robert clearly wanted a dress rehearsal, and right now she lacked the patience to argue with him.

Sam and Teddy started forward. The carriage was enormous, made of leather and wood but gilded all over so that, from a distance, it looked like solid gold. Sculptures were carved into the sides: a chorus of gods trumpeting in victory, eagles with their wings unfolded.

“No worries, Eaton, I’ll go with Sam,” said a voice behind her, as Marshall stepped forward to open the carriage door.

He was wearing jeans and a crew-neck shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. Sam’s heart lurched at how nonchalantly gorgeous he looked.

“Hey, Marshall. I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, with admirable disinterest.

“I thought I’d stop by. When the footman said you were at the stables, I caught a ride on one of the tourist carts. I learned so much,” he went on, eyes twinkling. “Did you know that your house has two thousand one hundred and eighty-eight windows, but only three of them still have the original glass?”

Normally Sam would have snorted in amusement at hearing the palace called a house. But her mind had whirled cruelly back to last weekend, and she said nothing.

“Lord Davis!” Robert exclaimed. “Do you ride?”

“Yeah, I went to junior polo camp with all the other fancy lads,” Marshall said sardonically.

The chamberlain nodded. “Excellent. I was wondering if you’d like to ride in the wedding procession, as part of Her Majesty’s advance guard? Traditionally it’s composed of six young noblemen, and—”

“Whatever, I’ll do it.” Marshall turned to Samantha, gesturing that he could help her up. “Shall we?”

Sam brushed past his outstretched hand and vaulted into the carriage alone.

The interior was very small; they had to sit facing each other, so close that they were almost bumping knees. Sam blinked, adjusting to the sudden dimness.

Neither of them spoke as, with agonizing slowness, the carriage jerked forward.

She felt Marshall’s dark eyes on hers, questioning. After a few more beats of silence, he jerked on a leather strap hanging from the carriage’s ceiling. “What’s this?”

“An old hat cord.” At his look, she explained. “It was for men to hang their top hat on, in case they were so tall it didn’t fit.”

“Of course, a hat cord.” Marshall wrapped his wrist around it and tugged himself forward, doing a pull-up. She ignored him.

The horses’ steps dwindled to a halt. Sam peered out the window; they had just stepped out of the arena. Queen Adelaide was complaining that she didn’t like the look of one of the horses: in the sunshine, its color was too light to match the others. A stable hand sprinted forward to switch it out.

“Your mom is benching one of the horses and putting in an alternate,” Marshall pointed out. “Poor guy. His career ended before it even began.”

When Sam said nothing, he lifted an eyebrow in concern. “Sam, are you okay?”

It wasn’t fair of him to act like he cared. He wasn’t her real boyfriend.

“I’m fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

He held out a hand, gesturing to her closed-off attitude. “This doesn’t seem fine. What’s going on?”

Sam wanted to grab him, kiss him, hurt him, everything at once. She wanted him to want her back—and since that wasn’t going to happen, she wanted to leave him before he got the chance to leave her first.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking,” she said, though every word cost her. “We should put an end to this, now that we’ve both gotten what we wanted out of the whole charade.”

She thought she saw Marshall tense at her words, but she couldn’t be sure. “Have we?”

“Kelsey was all over you last weekend. She clearly wants you back.” Sam shrugged, as if Marshall’s romantic dramas didn’t much interest her. “Isn’t it time we ended this farce of a relationship, so we can get together with the people we actually want to date?”

He stared at her for so long that her gaze wavered. She looked over at the door handle, wishing she could throw it open and run.

“Sure,” Marshall said at last. “We can break up.”

“Great.”

The silence that settled between them was denser than before. The carriage rumbled clumsily around a turn, and they were both rocked unceremoniously against the far wall. Sam blinked and sat up straight, trying to recover her dignity.

“So? Go ahead,” Marshall told her.

Sam blinked up at him. “What?”

“You want it to be public, right?” There was a cold glitter in his eyes as he jerked his chin toward the window. “If we’re going to break up, you should do it now. I’d recommend shouting, so Robert and your mom will hear.”

Sam dug her nails into the fabric of the seat cushion. “There’s no need to fake a breakup,” she snapped. “I’ll just tell Robert to make a press announcement tomorrow.”

“Come on, Sam, you love performing. End this farce of a relationship the way you started it. You owe me that much, at least.” Marshall was still speaking in his normal cool drawl, but beneath the words Sam detected a note of something else, fighting its way to the surface. “Then you can go to the wedding with your new boyfriend, or old boyfriend, or whoever the hell he is.”

“I’m not going with him,” Sam heard herself say. “He’s—he’s with someone else.”

Marshall scoffed. “In that case, I’m surprised you want to call this off.”

“Trust me, it’s for the best.”

“Come on, Sam.” Now Marshall sounded almost cruel. “You wanted to make him jealous; let’s really make him jealous. That’s all I’m good for, right? We can go to some more parties, take a new round of photos—really sexy ones this time, and—”

“Look, I don’t want him anymore, okay?” Sam cried out. “I don’t care about making him jealous!”

Marshall was very quiet as he asked, “What changed?”

Tell him how you feel, Beatrice had said. So Sam braced herself and did exactly that.

“I met you.”

When she dared a glance up, she saw that Marshall had gone utterly still.

“Samantha,” he said at last. Normally Sam hated her full name, but she loved it on his lips, loved the note of thrilling, territorial possessiveness underneath. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it killed me, seeing you with Kelsey last weekend. I don’t want to use you to get someone else. You’re the one I want.” Her words tumbled hastily over one another. “I can’t keep acting like this means nothing to me, not when I—”